Dragon Smoke
by goodpenmanship
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson investigate a violent string of seemingly impossible murders. The body count rises as Holmes leads the police force on a perplexing hunt.
1. Impossibilities

"To this day I am perplexed by the unusual and violent series of events that unfolded around myself and my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes, that strange fall in London. Of all his cases, this one was one of the most bizarre and horrific. At times I couldn't help but believe in a supernatural power, though my friend refused to be distracted by misleading tricks. We were younger men, but his intellect and perceptive abilities were still baffling beyond my belief.

I remember reading an article about the shady underworld of opium dens in the London Observer by Adrian Gathington and Megan Trestler, two investigative journalists. They were delving into dangerous waters, poking and prying at opium trade and addicts. The journalists particularly focused on a supposed den in the Brentwood District called the Black Dragon. Their research was weak, but the newest issue was due the next morning and they promised the insight of an inside source.

'Nervous about the interview you had at St. Anthony's Hospital?' asked Holmes, breaking the calm silence that had settled in our apartment. 'Remember, the written exam is but a formality. I'm sure you did fine on the skeletal structure portion of the test, though perhaps you should have studied a bit more. Well, even if you didn't do well, worrying won't do you any good.'

I put down the London Observer and stared at Holmes. A thin smirk formed on his face. 'I don't remember telling you about the hospital, the interview or the written exam,' I said, trying to calmly mask my bewilderment.

'You didn't,' responded Holmes. 'Just a lucky guess.'

'How did you know?' I hated it when Holmes acted as if any man that didn't follow his train of thought was a fool. He had the intelligence of a genius with the ego of a narcissist.

'Ah, Watson,' Holmes laughed. 'You're an open book, much like the books you've been studying for the past two weeks on medicine and anatomy. I've watched your bookmark diligently travel through four volumes of scientific research, yet it neglected to advance thoroughly through your book on the skeletal system. You've been getting ready for something important.

'Today you've returned from your morning activities later than usual, and more formally dressed. Your shoes are speckled with clay from the shore of the Thames and your shirt has crumbs from a muffin from Anna's Bakery,' Holmes sniffed the air, his hound-like nose sorting and analyzing every smell in the room. 'She flavors her famous muffins with a touch of peanut butter and caramel, easily identifiable scents. But why splurge when your diet has been going so well? Nervous perhaps?

'Anna's Bakery is across the street from St. Anthony's hospital, which resides on the shore of the Thames. You, being a military doctor in need of work, must have applied there. But how'd I know about the written exam?'

'Go on,' I said as I gestured for him to continue his analysis.

'Very well. You only stray from reading the London Times when you're anxious, and here you are reading articles from the London Observer. That and the muffin show tension in your mind. Flecks of ink on your fingers show you've been writing, but you're nervous about the results. Five times since you've returned you've glanced over to your book on skeletal structures, perhaps regretful that you didn't study it more before your test. Did you forget that two hundred six bones compose the human body? Or perhaps that the femur is the largest and auditory ossicles are the smallest?'

'Impressive, Holmes.' I was growing used to my friend's incredible ability to string subtle observations into grand conclusions in mere moments. I stood up from my chair and walked across the room. 'Allow me to make some deductions of my own.'

Holmes raised his eyebrows skeptically.

'You haven't been at your chemistry set or encyclopedias the past few days,' I began. 'I've heard you playing the violin though, at even more obnoxiously early hours than usual, and they're new songs, perhaps composed by yourself. So you haven't had a case recently and you long for one. No clients and no calls from Lestrade. You insist on showing off your observations of me because you're bored. Your mind can't rest given the current level of mental inactivity.'

Holmes wandered across the room and threw himself down on the old coach. 'Yes, but isn't that always the predicament I find myself in? I haven't had a challenging case for weeks. The criminal world is growing bland and predictable as I grow more brilliant. It's a tragic inverse relationship that leaves me with an empty mind that's capable of so much more. No one's clever.'

I chuckled at Holmes's desperate speech. He grew childish and whined when he had no puzzles to occupy his brain. Before I could say another word there was a knock at our door. The familiar sound of feet up our steps sounded through the house. I had begun picking up Holmes's techniques and was accustomed to the sounds of this particular man. Holmes and I made eye contact. 'Lestrade,' we said in unison.

'This is a weird one, Holmes,' said Lestrade as he let himself in. 'I've only seen a glimpse of it, but I already don't know what to make of it. I warn you, it's gruesome. Not for someone with a weak stomach.'

Holmes put his fingers together in thought. 'I'm rather busy, Lestrade,' he said. 'I'm not sure I have the time.'

Lestrade sighed and furrowed his brow. 'Holmes, be reasonable. Are you going to help us or not?'

I rolled my eyes at my friend's aloof attitude. His feigned disinterest was ridiculous considering his plea for a case a minute before. Lestrade and I watched him in silence as he rapped his fingers together.

'I'll take the case,' he finally said as he leapt off the old couch and grabbed his coat and hat. 'Come, Watson. London depends on us!'

We stood in the old Hog's Heart hotel, room 314. The grimy walls and peeling wallpaper seemed to cave in on us as we entered the rundown suite. Gregory Bauer, the owner of the hotel, stood behind us, his face still displaying a look of shock. It was no wonder, as a heinous crime had been committed between his walls.

In the center of the room the body of Henry Hop was sprawled on the floor, a deep pool of scarlet soaking the carpet beneath him, further staining the already unsanitary building. Big black flies buzzed around his mutilated corpse. He had been sliced up by a long bladed instrument, with one especially deep cut up his belly.

'This hotel room has two exits,' started Lestrade. He pointed to the door and window. 'Yet both were locked from the inside. We came here at Bauer's request earlier when Hop wouldn't respond and he feared there had been an accident. We broke the door open and found him like this.'

'Doesn't look like an accident to me,' said Holmes. He knelt next to the body and wafted in the smells. Hop was an Irishman of about thirty with red hair and green eyes. His red nose hardly stood out in contrast to the pool of blood. His clothes looked too big for him, his belt had two freshly cut holes in it to hold up his trousers. Old scars covered his weathered hands and on his thick wrist there was an unusual tan line, like a woven pattern.

'The peculiar case of room 314,' said Holmes as he took a look around the room. He studied the moldy window for quite some time before pushing it open and letting in a brisk autumn breeze. I gazed out at the smog filled metropolis that I called home.

'What do you know about Hop?' Holmes asked Bauer as he turned back to us.

'Not much at all,' the hotel owner responded. 'He was here for three nights. Last night he came in late, near eleven, and that's the last time I saw him alive. He did seem awfully nervous though.'

'He must have been trying to get away from the Black Dragon opium den,' said Holmes. 'He probably owed money.'

Had Holmes been reading the London Observer as well? I thought back to the article I had read this morning about the slums of Brentwood and the terrible opium addiction.

'Sorry, what?' asked Lestrade in confusion. 'Where on earth did that come from?'

'Observe his irritated nose and dried vomit in the corner of the room, masked by the smell of blood. Hop also rapidly lost weight recently, judging by his loose clothing and the crude holes cut in his belt to accommodate his shrinking waist. The faint smell of _Papaver somniferum_, the type of poppy used in the production of opium, is present on Hop's clothes. He was suffering from withdrawals. Not to mention, the name Henry Hop is clearly an alias while he hides out. Hop is slang for opium, which shows what's been on his mind.

'Hop was a sailor. His hands bare distinct fishhook scars and he gives off the faint aroma of haddock. His shoes are tied with carrick bend knots, a curious habit as those are most commonly used by sailors on cargo ships. In his pocket I found nothing but a Danish krone and a handful of sand from the shore. Judging by the size of the granules and the color I'd say this sand came from Brentwood. If we look to where he's been eating, we find eight cans of vegetable chicken soup from Weston trading ships,' Holmes gestured towards the small dining table in the corner of the room. 'The Weston trading company recently returned from Denmark, hence the krone in his pocket, and their ships dock in Brentwood. Weston ships neighbor Ming trading ships, a questionable other company that's known for suspicious trades. It's not a stretch to assume Hop got mixed up with some sailors from Ming ships and found himself at the Black Dragon smoking opium.'

I was rather impressed with Holmes's quick deductions. His time away from detective work hadn't dulled his sharp sense of reason and lightning logic. While he acted calm and collected, I could tell he was secretly loving every moment of the thrill of the chase.

'That still doesn't explain how he was murdered,' said Lestrade. 'Don't forget, the door and window were both latched shut from inside.'

Holmes ignored him and turned to Bauer. 'Did anyone stay in the rooms adjacent to 314 last night?'

Bauer scratched his stubbly chin. 'No one stayed in 315, but there was a fellow that stayed in 313 for last night only. His name was Arthur Cobalt. He had long black hair and a scar under his right eye. He was wearing an old gray shirt and black pants, nothing special.'

'Another alias,' muttered Holmes. 'He was almost definitely the killer. Let's take a look at his room, shall we?'

Holmes spent five minutes in room 313 before returning back to the scene of the crime with a look of satisfaction on his face. He proudly held a small piece of gray fabric in his hand. Holmes had pieced something together, his mind rapidly connecting the jigsaw pieces of the murder.

'So how was it done?' asked Lestrade. 'What's the secret?'

'Am I the only one that solves puzzles to combat boredom? The only one that feels the need to exercise the mind?' Holmes groaned. 'What did you do before you began consulting with me and borrowing my skills on your cases, Lestrade?' Holmes mocked the inspector without pause. He had a powerful sense of superiority.

'That's enough, Holmes!' Lestrade's face was red. He refused to be ridiculed, his pride too much.

'It was a ghost,' said Holmes emotionlessly. 'It's the only explanation, right? Locked door. Locked window. It must have been a murderous ghost.'

Lestrade was fuming now. 'I've had it!' he shouted. Holmes's teasing had gotten to him. 'I know you know what happened here!'

It was then that the scene took a ghastly turn. The body of Henry Hop began to writhe and shake on the floor, blood spurting from his open stomach. I jumped backwards in surprise, eyes fixed on the animated corpse. Bauer jumped back as well, a look of fear on his face. Lestrade and Holmes both took a step away, a look of horror shown by Lestrade, but curiosity exhibited by the great detective.

Hop's stomach tore open completely, a nightmarish spray of blood speckling the floor red. From his belly came an ink black crow, soaked in bodily fluids. It cawed loudly as it flew around the room, crashing against the walls and squawking fiercely. Finally it flew out the open window and into the London air, disappearing into the clouds.

'It's the Devil!' cried Bauer. He cowered in the corner of the room, eyes wide in shock.

'What in God's name was that?!' yelled Lestrade.

I felt my pounding heart, the steady rhythmic beat thrown off by the sudden jolt of panic. I could hardly come to terms with what I had just experienced. But while I looked to my heart in a situation of distress, I knew that Holmes looked to logic and plausible thought. He refused to be distracted by emotions, his judgment never clouded by excitement. He spoke one word. 'Interesting.'

'How do you explain that phenomenon?' asked Lestrade. He tried to regain he composure, but visible lines of sweat tracked down his face.

'A trick to scare the simpleminded,' said Holmes. 'Watson, as a medical man, what do you make of it?'

I was without words. Still awestruck from the ghoulish scene I scratched my head and forced myself to calm down and see reason. 'The crow was there the whole time,' I began, 'but it was unconscious.'

Holmes smiled and urged me to continue.

'It was drugged by the killer and put in Hop's body,' I said. 'The sedative wore off and our investigations woke it up.'

'My thoughts precisely,' agreed Holmes. His deductive reasoning was rubbing off on me, though I still lacked the ability to completely block out emotion. That wasn't an ability I wanted.

'The clue is in the mildew,' said Holmes. Lestrade looked over to him, his jaw agape. 'The clue to how Cobalt killed Hop. It's hidden in the mildew of the window.'

Lestrade walked over to the window and examined it once again. 'What am I looking for?' he asked.

'That would be too easy,' said Holmes. He strode over to the window beside Lestrade and pointed to a small hole in the corner above the latch, cleverly hidden in mold and dirt. 'I have a theory about this locked room murder. Cobalt started in room 313 and climbed out the window after dark, carefully shimmying along the edge of the building between 313 and 314.' Lestrade craned his neck out the window and saw a small ledge covered in pigeon droppings between the rooms. 'It wouldn't be impossible for someone with exceptional balance and a minimal fear of heights. He got to this window and used a glass cutting tool to make the small hole. From there he could have used a bobby pin or a needle to reach through the hole and unlock it from the outside. Cobalt climbed inside and waited for Hop to come home, then he struck. He planted the paralyzed bird inside Hop's stomach then climbed back out the window and relocked it using the tiny hole in the glass again.'

Lestrade rubbed his chin in thought. 'Well it beats the ghost theory,' he said.

'Indeed,' agreed Holmes. 'I found a scrap of Cobalt's gray shirt stuck on a screw on the window to 313. He tore it when he climbed outside. Also, we can't overlook the mark on Hop's floor near the window where someone tracked in pigeon feces.' Holmes pointed to a small stain on the rug.

He started walking towards the door. 'Watson, come quick. We have matters to attend to!' he announced. 'We'll meet you tonight at Baker Street, Lestrade.'


	2. The Den of the Dragon

Holmes and I departed the Hog's Heart hotel and trudged into the gathering fog. He flagged down a taxi and we climbed in.

'First we're going to the Weston trading ships,' said Holmes. 'It's time we found out more about Henry Hop.'

Holmes and I questioned the captain of the one of the Weston ships and he identified Henry Hop as Henry MacAulay, an unreliable opium addict.

'Just as I suspected. Now we're going to investigate the Black Dragon,' said Holmes. 'But we'll need disguises.'

Once at Baker Street we donned our disguises. We traveled to Brentwood and entered the Black Dragon, a dimly lit slum inhabited by opium addicted customers. They rested lazily throughout the smoky room, the only noises from the occasional cough and wheeze. The state of the sorry souls was horrendous, poisoning themselves relentlessly.

We casually drifted through the room, thick fumes invading my orifices with every step. My eyes began to water from the toxins. The room was decorated with Chinese and Aztec artwork.

'Greetings gentlemen.' A tall hefty Chinaman stood before us, his arms spread in welcome. He had a thin stubbly beard, short black hair and a black tattoo of a lizard on his forearm that was illustrated in a South American style. A large silver woven bracelet jangled on his wrist. 'My name is Qiang Zao.'

Holmes appeared to float on the smoke over to the Chinaman. 'Where'd you get such an elegant bracelet?' he whispered as he reached out to touch it.

'A friend of mine,' said the man as he drew his arm back. 'Can I help you, gentlemen?'

I stared past Holmes as he conversed with the Chinaman. The men and women sprawled around the room looked to be on a new level of reality. Some twitched and others shivered uncontrollably. I was no expert on opium but this drug was more potent than I'd expected.

'I'm looking for Henry MacAulay,' said Holmes.

The Chinaman was silent for a long moment. He chuckled. 'MacAulay is a great customer. Here, please, I insist you relax.' The man retrieved a small opium pipe from a nearby drawer and handed it to Holmes. 'On the house, my friend. You and your friend can share.'

Holmes cradled the opium pipe in his hand and wandered through the smoky lair. He sat in silence on a large pillow, silently looking around the room, breathing in observations and making deductions. We waited for at least an hour in the dark pit. Finally Holmes rose.

Together we shuffled out of the Black Dragon behind a short man with long black hair. The alleyway was cool and foggy, but even the smog of London was preferable to the tainted air of the Black Dragon. The afternoon was growing late. I was beyond surprise when Holmes crept up behind the short man and grabbed him by the collar.

'Why'd you kill Henry MacAulay?!' Holmes barked. I could hardly understand what was going on. What had Holmes seen that had sparked such a conclusion?

'What?' the man was in a state of delirious confusion. 'I knew him, MacAulay. He's dead?'

Holmes stared deep into the man's eyes, an old scar visible beneath the right one. Holmes seemed to pierce past the retinas and delve into the soul. 'What's your name?'

'Joshua Pierceton,' the man groaned. 'But I didn't kill MacAulay! I didn't even know the guy was dead.'

'You're coming with us to the police station,' said Holmes.

To my disbelief the man hardly resisted Holmes's demand. Together we rode to the station and delivered the confused addict to Lestrade.

'This man, Joshua Pierceton, is our murderer,' announced Holmes. 'He matches the description given by Bauer, long black hair and a scar under the right eye. He has pigeon droppings on his shoe and he's wearing a gray shirt with a small tear in it. The fabric is identical to the piece I found in room 313 this morning, torn on the window.'

Lestrade cocked his eyebrow in surprise. 'Where'd you find this chump?'

'The Black Dragon,' responded Holmes. 'I'm not sure why his did it, but this is the killer.'

'No I'm not,' argued Pierceton. 'I've been at the Black Dragon all day.'

Lestrade scratched his chin. 'I've just heard word of another murder with a similar MO.'

Holmes was taken aback for a second. 'Then there's two killers. Not impossible. Pierceton was responsible for the murder of Henry MacAulay.'

Lestrade turned to another officer. 'Lock this man up, Joshua Pierceton, on suspicion of the murder of Henry MacAulay. See if you can get any word out of him.'

Pierceton was dragged away through the station and the three of us departed to the new crime scene. It was a short journey across town to a taxi taped off on the side of a London street. The fog was growing thicker every hour. Outside the cab was the driver, nervously clenching a small crucifix in his shaking hands.

'What happened here?' asked Lestrade. There were a few policemen around the cab but none went too close to it.

The driver shuddered. 'I picked up this guy, tall with a long beard. He was wearing sunglasses and a hat. I picked him up like any other trip and we rode across town. When we arrived at the destination and he didn't respond I went to check on him. I opened the door to my cab and a crow flew out into the sky. I looked back in the cab and I found him, butchered to death, torn limb from limb.' The man shivered and went back to anxiously rubbing his crucifix.

Holmes walked over to the taxi and looked inside. The scene was gruesome. The macabre vehicle was drenched in blood and strewn throughout were the naked severed appendages of a human man. The horror was painted red with innards and the smell was overpowering.

Holmes looked deeper into the cab, closely examining the severed body parts. The only other items in the cab were two large suitcases, empty save puddles of blood.

'What do I tell the public?' muttered Lestrade in awe. 'Some murderous lunatic is parading around committing impossible crimes. This is on another level of unnaturalness.'

Holmes looked deep in thought, his fingers pressed together in concentration, seemingly lost in a deep meditation. He snapped back to attention.

'We must go at once,' he said. 'There's no time to lose.'

'Elaborate, Holmes,' said Lestrade.

'The life of Megan Trestler hangs in the balance, inspector,' said Holmes. 'She's the third piece of the puzzle. The third victim in the series.'

That name, Megan Trestler, was burningly familiar. I'd seen it somewhere.

'Oh?' Lestrade and I both failed to follow Holmes's logic. 'How do you figure?'

Then it hit me. Megan Trestler and Adrian Gathington were the investigative journalists for the London Observer. I was curious to hear Holmes's theory.

'When you look at these body parts, what do you see?' began Holmes. 'We'll start with the hands. There are splashes of black and white ink by the fingers, along with small speckles of opium tar. A fresh paper cut has been inflicted and there are grooves from pressure on the undersides of his forearms. The fingernails are chewed and there's a gray smudge on the side of his left hand. From these simple observations we can deduce that the victim was using a typewriter before his death. The black and white ink was being used for typing and erasing, but the splashes indicate he was in a rush while transferring ink cartridges. His fingernails are chewed and the lines on his forearms indicate constant pressure from his arms on the desk. The smudge of graphite on his left hand is from hurriedly taking notes, and the paper cut was another error in his haste. He was racing to catch a deadline.

'So a novelist or a professor perhaps?' Lestrade threw his thoughts into the explanation.

'If we only consider what I've laid out for you so clearly, then those are perfectly suitable theories. But you must look deeper. Look to his legs. Bits of quality black lint between his toes indicate he was wearing formal socks, and the worn callouses on his feet indicate lots of travel.

'Now we should direct our attention to his decapitated head. His tangled black beard has bits of vegetable chicken soup stuck in it. If I'm not mistaken, it's the same brand from the Weston trade ships.'

'The soup that Henry MacAulay was eating?' Lestrade rubbed his chin in thought. 'Holmes, that's not much of a connection.'

'It's a bit of leap,' agreed Holmes, 'but when referring back to the fresh opium tar on the hands we can be almost certain he spent time with MacAulay. I theorize that MacAulay was the mysterious informant for the Black Dragon article in the London Observer and our victim here was one of the investigative journalists, Adrian Gathington.'

The fact that Holmes had summoned such deductions from studying the severed body parts of a fresh corpse impressed me and made me sick to my stomach all at the same time.

Lestrade held up his hand as if to pause the scene and allow himself time to think. 'But who is Megan Trestler?'

'The other investigative journalist of course,' responded Holmes. 'You still haven't read the article? Now we must go to the London Observer headquarters at once and find out where she is. If the pattern continues, she'll be killed, quite possibly before tomorrow's printing of the story.'

Night had begun its slow descent on the streets of London as we arrived at the London Observer. Lestrade had split off from our party with several of his officers to investigate the Black Dragon. They were more than likely responsible for the deaths of MacAulay and Gathington considering both were crucial for the article on opium dens.

Once inside, Holmes inquired about the whereabouts of Adrian Gathington and Megan Trestler. The secretary told us that Trestler was out enjoying dinner with her fiancé at Candlewick, a superb London restaurant, and she pointed us to Gathington's office in the back of the building.

Holmes and I rushed to the office and burst through the door. Just as suspected, Gathington was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared midsentence, his typewriter nearing the final paragraphs of the article. Holmes sniffed the air and wandered to the window, which had been clearly tampered with from the outside.

'I still don't understand how Gathington turned up naked and butchered in a cab,' I said, hoping my friend would clear things up for me.

'It was another dastardly trick,' replied Holmes. 'I'm quite certain, given the state of this office, I know what happened to him. I'll tell you after we find Trestler and ensure her safety, assuming she hasn't already been murdered. We must make haste to Candlewick at once.'

And so we did. Holmes and I hailed a cab and headed straight for Candlewick. I rapped my fingers on the wall of the taxi, my nerves getting the best of me. I feared for the life of Trestler, considering the horrific murders that had been previously committed. After an eternity of anxiousness we arrived at Candlewick and raced inside. We climbed three flights of stairs to find Trestler and her fiancé. Together they sat, enjoying a meal, unaware of the impending danger.

Before I could cry out a warning I heard the ear splitting crack of gunfire. A single shot sounded, reverberating through the restaurant, and downing a single customer. Trestler slumped into her chair, blood leaking down her dress and a sizeable chunk of her neck splattered against the window. Her fiancé rose in horror, tears welling in his eyes. I scanned the room and saw a dark figure standing near the kitchen doors, a smoking gun gripped in his hand. He was wearing a long black cape and a mask that resembled a large sadistic crow.

The masked man quickly retreated into the kitchen, disappearing through the swinging doors. 'After him!' shouted Holmes and we sprinted past tables of terrified customers towards the villain. Trester's fiancé rose from his wife-to-be's side and joined us in our pursuit.

The shooter fled into the kitchen, but was almost immediately hopelessly cornered. Cooks had blocked the doors and began to circle him. His only escape was a window three stories off the ground into a London alleyway. He was helplessly trapped, or so I thought.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small orb which he spiked on the floor. A thick cloud of black smoke formed, spreading rapidly and blocking any visibility. In the commotion there was the sound of shattering glass.

After a minute of blindness, the smoke cleared and the gunman was gone. I rushed to the window and looked out. It was a sheer drop with no footholds, yet the masked man had vanished without a trace. Surely he couldn't have gone far in the few precious moments of darkness, but as I craned my neck out I saw no clue as to where he scampered off to. It was then that I saw the crow mask and cape lying in a heap at the foot of the building. So he had leapt out the window, taken off his cape and mask, and then stealthily rejoined the crowd.

Holmes joined me at the window for a moment before fiercely looking around the room. His eyes darted between cooks.

'How did he get away?!' yelled Trester's fiancé in rage. 'The doors were covered and the drop is suicide!'

'He hasn't escaped us yet,' replied Holmes. I could see in his eyes that the turning gears of his mind were working on another level of analysis.

Holmes darted across the room and grabbed hold of one of the cooks near the back. He pulled him into the center of the room and held up by the collar of his shirt.

'It was you!' he shouted. An untimely grin spread on my companion's face. He was proud of his quick actions, and I was interested to hear his evidence.

Holmes sniffed the man's hair and shook him violently. 'Ladies and gentlemen, this is the killer,' he announced. I was surprised that the captured cook showed no resistance. He seemed to be more confused than afraid or guilty.

The crowd was silent in anticipation of Holmes's explanation. He began. 'The shooter led us here and trapped himself on purpose. Why else would he corner himself in this room? When the smoke bomb was activated he took the few moments he had to remove his cape and mask and wrap them up with his gun, then throw it all out the window in a bundle. It was a clever misdirection, leading us to believe he himself leapt from the window and magically escaped uninjured.

'The killer planned for this and was wearing a cook's outfit underneath the black cape, so he would blend in with the panicked crowd once the smoke cleared. But look at this man's hand, there's a fresh burn from the pistol's backfire on his wrist. There's a small crow feather stuck in his hair. He's sweatier than anyone else in here from running around in the heavy cape and mask. Finally he smells distinctly of opium smoke, a steady theme that has imbedded itself into this case of the London Observer murders.'

The police arrived at the scene shortly and took the gunman, Mathew Anderson, into custody. He went with them calmly confused, similar to Joshua Pierceton. For such brutal killers I was stunned at the lack of emotion the men had shown.

Lestrade updated us on the Black Dragon raid. The London police had arrested everyone they could, though some addicts escaped, including the owner, Qiang Zao. More interesting still, once back at the station Anderson denied being involved in Trestler's murder. He had no recollection of the events that had taken place.

Holmes and I made our way back to Baker Street and he took a seat in the armchair that he favored by the window. The streets of London were lit solely by the thin crescent moon and dim lamps arranged throughout the city. My friend slowly strummed his violin, his eyes looking off into the distance, deep in thought.

I stayed up with him for a few hours, but he retreated to his chemistry set and insisted on solitude. Secluded and alone, he carefully took notes in one of his notebooks as he stared through his microscope and added various chemicals to a solution.

In the morning I found him still hard at work and barely moved. I had no clue if he'd slept at all during the night. He was so focused on the case he would barely talk to me.

This was not unusual of course. I'd seen Holmes deny himself food or rest for elongated periods of time, deteriorating his body, as his mind furiously worked on problems at hand. I had no thoughts to contribute, no ideas that hadn't already passed Holmes's mind, so I departed for several hours for food and fresh air.


	3. Deliriant

Upon my return I found Holmes sitting in the armchair once again, a lit cigarette resting between his long fingers. The room was dark and his eyes were cold and piercing.

'Thirty hours ago, when we began this case, I never imagined this outcome,' said Holmes. He took a long slow drag of his cigarette and let out a thin line of smoke. 'We've investigated three separate murders, all of which were horribly violent. Most curious though is the apparent amnesia that the two murders we caught experienced. I think we're nearing the end of this journey, Watson. I can see the light at the end of the dark tunnel that we've been thrown into.'

I was on the edge of my seat listening to Holmes's conclusion. What had he seen that everyone else was so blind to?

'I'll begin with the murder of Adrian Gathington,' continued Holmes. 'I neglected to explain the details of that crime in my haste to save Megan Trestler, though it hardly mattered in the end. Recall that Gathington got into the cab, they drove through the fog for a long while, then at his stop the cab driver found him cut to pieces. Consider the possibility that Gathington was already dead before entering the cab. You see, Watson, the only possessions of the man entering the cab were two large suitcases. These cases were empty when we inspected the cab, so what was in them before we got there? The severed body parts of Adrian Gathington.

'Gathington had been kidnapped earlier in the day while he was at his office. His typewriter was stopped midsentence, the lock on his window was broken, and the room had a hint of chloroform that was used to render him unconscious. He was stripped, murdered and sliced apart before being stuffed in the cases. The man that entered the cab was his killer wearing a disguise. The hat and glasses were meant to obscure his appearance, and the beard was most definitely fake. The killer opened the suitcases in the cab, took the body parts out, and then snuck out into the fog. There was no more than two and a half liters of blood in that taxi when there should have been closer to five because Gathington had been killed elsewhere.'

Gathington's unnatural death made perfect sense when Holmes explained it so simply. 'And who killed him?' I asked.

Holmes waved his hand as if to push away the question. 'An opium addict at the Black Dragon, but it doesn't matter which one.'

I was a bit surprised at his answer. The identity of a killer is never an insignificant detail. I allowed him to continue his findings.

'The Borrachero tree grows in South America, most commonly Columbia, and can be harvested to produce scopolamine,' said Holmes. I didn't have the faintest where this lecture on South American trees was leading. 'Scopolamine, also known as "The Devil's Breath," is arguably the most dangerous drug in the world. In minute doses it can cure motion sickness, in slightly larger doses it begins dangerously altering the mind, and in even slightly largely doses it's lethal. This combination of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and oxygen makes the brain incredibly vulnerable to suggestion. It's a sort of chemical mind control. Once influenced by the drug, you're at the mercy of any command, like a young naïve child to his mother. Once the affects have worn off, the memories of anything done while under its influence are lost from the mind.'

'Incredible,' I muttered. 'I had no idea such a drug existed.'

'Scopolamine is a dangerous criminal weapon. If someone slipped you a dose of it they could ask you to give away all your possessions with no resistance. Luckily the drug is incredibly rare in this part of the world, but someone seems to have gotten their hands on some.'

'Holmes,' I interrupted, 'are you telling me the murderers were mind controlled into killing MacAulay, Gathington and Trestler? That's why they can't remember?'

Holmes rose from his chair and glanced out the window. 'Exactly, Watson. The drug was secretly synthesized into opium of the Black Dragon, slowly changing every addict into a puppet. I ran several chemical tests on the free opium that Qiang Zao, the gracious owner, gave to us. There's no doubt that scopolamine is present. It's no wonder he gave away his precious opium for free to two strangers. He wanted us caught in his snare.

'Zao has been using the scopolamine, along with other forms of hypnosis I assume, to get his customers to act any way he pleases. He can steal their money, learn their secrets, and recently he's been using them to execute murders. Each one of the ungodly killings has been orchestrated by Zao. He's the mastermind behind it all.

'Of course, I suspected him when we first met him. His silver bracelet struck me as especially suspicious. The bracelet was Celtic, a woven metal design worn by the Irish. MacAulay had tan lines on his wrist that corresponded exactly with the design of the bracelet. But Zao was too big to climb from room 313 to 314, so while I knew he was involved, I also knew he wasn't the only one. I assumed he and Joshua Pierceton had worked together, and we would be able to get a confession out of him, incriminating Zao. Now it's obvious that Zao merely used the influence of the scopolamine to take the Celtic bracelet without a fight.

'It was clear that Zao had spent time in South America by the Aztec art in the Black Dragon and his South American tattoos. That's where he got the scopolamine before coming to London.

'When the London Observer started writing an article on Zao's establishment, he took action and sent out his mind controlled assassins to take care of the writers and informant. It explains the confusion and immediate surrender upon being captured. Pierceton and Anderson were still suffering from effects of the drug so they didn't resist arrest.'

'Brilliant,' I said. 'But Zao and a few of his customers escaped the Black Dragon before Lestrade raided it. They're gone.'

'Not quite,' corrected Holmes. He glanced out the window once again. 'There's been a woman standing out there for the past two hours. I recognize her from the Black Dragon. I had a feeling Zao would send an assassin after me as well because I uncovered two of his killers.'

I stirred uneasily with the thought someone with intentions to kill waiting at our front door. 'Then we're in danger! We should get out of here.'

'Yes,' said Holmes. 'Let us go to the West London Botanical Garden.'

'Oh? Why there?'

Holmes smirked. 'I noticed the Black Dragon assassin long before your return. Some time ago I put on one of my disguises, snuck out the back, and walked past the woman. I only needed a few moments to read her. Rich soil caked her shoes and her jacket was thick with pollen. The petals of a rare larkspur flower were stuck to her hair. I pickpocketed her and found a ticket from Kensington Station, remarkably close to the Garden. She'd just traveled this morning. All the clues point towards the same location.

'We must hurry though. Last time Zao was a step ahead of me. He had Trestler killed because I wasn't fast enough. Get your revolver and we'll go to the Garden right away. He's too clever to stay in one place for too long. If he thinks we're on his trail he'll run and hide. We'll sneak out the back and avoid the woman from the Black Dragon. Once the scopolamine wears off she'll be harmless.'

We stealthily made our way through the busy London streets. Holmes remained vigilant, constantly searching for assassins in the crowd. At last we arrived at the Garden and crept inside. Holmes looked around for a few minutes before turning to me.

'These footprints were made by the woman outside Baker Street,' he said. 'The shoeprints and stride length are identical.'

We followed them through the garden and came to a dead end. Holmes began carefully knocking on parts of the wall, listening intently. A satisfied look spread across his face.

'No secret is safe from me,' he laughed as he activated the hidden door in the wall.

We followed it down to the smoky basement, full of barely conscious opium addicts. Together we cautiously crept through the room, careful not to raise suspicion. Holmes had his hawk-like eyes out for Zao. He stopped at a locked door and began picking it with two long slender pieces of metal. There was a satisfying click and Holmes pushed the door open.

'The game is up, Zao,' he said as he drew a pistol of his own. Zao turned back and his eyes grew wide. He was standing over a large bag of white powder. Scopolamine.

'The only locked door in the basement,' said Holmes. 'I knew something good would be behind it. We know what you did. We know about South America and the scopolamine and the murders. We know you're the mastermind, silently pulling the strings from offstage as your actors take the falls.'

'You've impressed me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,' said Zao. 'You've done your research well.' He put his hand on the bag of scopolamine. 'The perfect drug. The key to any mind.'

'You have a sick mind, Zao. Though I was impressed with the creativity of your attacks. You've finally given me a reason to think again. I've enjoyed this exercise.'

Those were the final words of the matter. In an instant, Zao drew his own gun, a small pistol from his sleeve, and fired. I fired back out of reflex and so did Holmes. Zao's bullet struck Holmes on the shoulder, punching him backwards. My bullet tore through Zao's hand, sending his gun flying and knocking him off balance. Holmes's bullet went stray and hit the scopolamine, bursting the bag and sending a thick white cloud into the air. Zao fell backwards into the cloud and began to cough and howl. He started convulsing on the floor, foam erupting from his mouth.

'He's taken in too much,' said Holmes as he clutched the bullet wound on his shoulder. 'We need to get out of this room now!'

Zao died of a heart attack on the floor of the dimly lit room, his body unable to handle the heavy load of the world's most dangerous drug.

I tended to Holmes's wound back at Baker Street. It was only a glancing hit, and Holmes wasn't bothered at all by it. He was in a joyous mood for some time, finally satisfied in solving a case worthy of his talents.

Lestrade cleaned up the rest of the mess, sorting through the opium addicts and carefully disposing of the scopolamine. Another demented criminal had been defeated because of Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. London could sleep a little safer."


End file.
